The First Rooftop
by smaugtheconsultingdragon
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a favorite spot on his rooftop that no one knows about. Well, until a new family moved in next door. Teen!Lock Sherlock and John. Fluff.


Sherlock Holmes had a favorite spot. A spot which no one knew about but he, and from which he could not hear the taunting neighbors or his quarreling family. There was a small rooftop just outside his bedroom window. It came close to touching a similar roof top of the house next door, which had been unoccupied for several years now. It was two stories off the ground, which no one ever seemed to walk on. The alleyway between the houses was too small to be used as a popular path. It was a lonely little spot, but Sherlock preferred loneliness to the company of people who only ever greeted him with bitterness and annoyance. The boy would sit on his rooftop every night; some nights he would read, or write stories and speeches he never intended to show anyone. Other nights he would simply stare into the air above him, the complexities and logical impossibilities of the universe that engulfed him frantically consuming his mind. It was the eve of his seventeenth birthday, and the eleventh anniversary of his first evening spent on his rooftop. Sherlock lay on his back, his head to his closed window, his hands pressed together under his chin, as if he were praying to the god he refused to believe in. His feet rested on the roof of the other house, for he was already six feet tall at sixteen years of age. His eyes stung, the consequence of unblinking thought. He rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly for a moment.

When he reopened his eyes, everything was slightly brighter. Sherlock sat up, staring toward the window of the unoccupied - well, newly occupied, apparently - house next to his own. Light seeped through the mildewed curtains left behind by the family that used to fill the home. Sherlock saw the shadows of two people on the curtain. Sounds were muffled, but as the figures came closer, Sherlock was able to hear voices.

"John, this one's yours." A female voice spoke. She sounded young, but not like a child. "I want the one next door."

"But I wanted the one next door." This voice belonged to a boy, teenaged. Sherlock assumed him to be John. "This one's smaller and…" A hand touched the curtain. "Moldy."

"I'll be out next year. You can have that room then." The girl's shadow retreated toward the door.

"But, Harry!"

"Have fun in your room, John!" The door closed. The boy shuffled about the room for a few moments, carrying things back and forth from one side of the room to the other. Sherlock watched the shadow in the window. No one had lived in that house in years, and Sherlock preferred it that way. He had enjoyed the privacy of his lonely rooftop. He prayed silently in his mind that this boy, John, would not pull back the curtain. It would more than likely be just one more person to harass Sherlock. This was his spot, he couldn't imagine being unable to return.

To his dismay, the curtain was torn down from the window. The boy froze upon seeing Sherlock with his knees pulled to his chest. Sherlock did not move, but studied John silently. The boy blinked, trance like, a few times before opening his window.

"Um… Hello." John's face scrunched.

"Hello," Sherlock replied.

"What are you doing on the roof?"

"Thinking."

"Doesn't it get a little cold out there?"

"Occasionally."

"Trying to get away?"

Sherlock's attention was caught. John continued speaking before he could reply.

"I won't bother you, if you don't want me to. I know what it's like, needing to get away. But I know it gets quite lonely as well. It's a nice spot. Perfect, actually." He was short, but looked about the same age as Sherlock. His blonde hair had once been a crew cut, but had grown shaggy. Good thing too; he would look odd with hair that short. He was training to go into the army, though he didn't look much like a fighter. There were bags under his eyes. He looked as if he had been through lifetimes. Such pain and strength behind those eyes, but that could have been his imagination. John continued. "I won't take it from you though, the spot I mean, or ask you to share it. You know what, I'll just go now." He seemed slightly embarrassed, and a bit frustrated at Sherlock's silence.

"Sherlock-" Sherlock called to John before he could shut the window. John looked back out.

"Hm?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

John grinned, just barely, to himself and climbed out onto his roof. He held out his hand to Sherlock.

"I'm John. John Watson."

They shook hands. John's hand was warm; Sherlock was positive his cold hand caused a shiver to run down the other boy's back.

"So, what is it?" John asked.

"What?"

"What is it that you're trying to get away from?"

"From which you are trying to get away." He corrected, immediately regretting his impulse.

"What?"

"A grammar mistake. You ended your sentence with a preposition." Sherlock bit his tongue, silently telling himself to shut up before he drove John away. Another enemy was the last thing he needed. He couldn't walk out his own front door without facing ridicule. So Sherlock kept to himself as much as possible, rather than facing those that tormented him. He hardly slept, and rarely ate, but he would spend his time thinking, or reading on the occasions that he didn't want to face his own mind, which was often. He filled his head with stories, fiction and nonfiction. His favorites were those of pirates and the like, uninhibited and audacious men who did whatever they pleased and faced scorn from no one. He often wished his life could be similar to the ones of the characters in his books.

"Oh, um - sorry. I'm always doing that." John apologized.

"But in reference to your original question: The general stupidity and ignorance of the rest of the world."

"Well, don't you have a sunny outlook on life." John said sarcastically, a smirk causing the corners of his eyes to wrinkle ever so slightly.

"Why are you going into the military if you would rather be a doctor?"

John stared at Sherlock curiously for a moment. "How did you-?"

"Your hair. It's grown out of a crew cut, plus your posture is that of someone in the military, or training to be. But the notes of your hand and the books on the floor of your room pertain to medical sciences. Why go into the military if you want to study medicine?"

"Um…" John took a moment to catch up, looking at the notes he had scribbled on his palm and turning to look through the window at the books he had sat by his door. "You got all that from just the minute or two we've been sitting here?"

"That and more." Sherlock smirked and leaned forward. "You're obviously trying to 'get away,' as you say, just as much as I am. Why else would you be talking to a stranger on a rooftop. Your sister, Harry, is older than you, torments you constantly, as siblings do, but she has a lot of issues and you feel as if it's your responsibility to help take care of her. Your parents are fairly distant, they hardly play any part in you or your sister's lives, otherwise they would have checked on you by now. You've just moved to a new place, but you're used to this. You've moved around a lot in your lifetime, either that or you don't have many friends to miss. Which would explain why you're still here listening to me tell you your own life story."

John never once took his wide eyes off Sherlock. _Now you've done it, _he thought, castigating himself silently. He had already run him off, he was sure of it. Sherlock looked down at his bare feet, bracing himself for the insult he knew was seconds away from sputtering out of John Watson's lips.

"That was…"

_Here it comes._

__"Amazing."

Sherlock looked back up at John. He hadn't misheard, he had never misheard anything in his life. John was smiling at him. He had a nice smile, one of those genuine smiles that could light up a room. Not like his sarcastic smirk.

"Really?"

"Yes. Truly, amazing."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

The two of them chuckled. Sherlock smiled, though the thought of the usual reactions to his ramblings did honestly bother him. His brain was constantly full of thoughts, racing, darting about his mind, he couldn't help it. He noticed things others neglected, and somehow that made him different enough to be the subject of daily torment.

"I know what it's like." John broke a heavy silence. Sherlock looked at him curiously. "They tease you about it, don't they. It's only 'cause they don't understand. People reject the things they can't figure out. Harry, my sister, she's got a girlfriend back in our old town. We both got messed with all the time. It got really bad after a while. Harry was coming home with black eyes and broken fingers. It's why we moved away. And it's why I joined the OTC. I want to be able to protect the people I care about. I mean, I'm not big or intimidating, but I could kick somebody's arse if I needed to."

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself before turning around to open his window.

"Goodnight, John."

John's brow furrowed. "Wait, you're leaving? I just told you my sob story and you just up and leave?"

"Is there something more I should say?"

John's expression lightened. Sherlock was genuinely confused as to why his response was inappropriate. John seemed to understand, and gave a small smile.

"No," John said. "No, it's fine. Goodnight." He retreated into his room as Sherlock did the same. Sherlock slid into his bedroom, stopping as his feet hit the floor. He turned around, sticking his head back outside before John could close his window.

"John!" He called. John leaned outside, his forearms resting on his window sill.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"How do you feel about the violin?"


End file.
